


through the secrets that i have seen

by Kirta



Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen, an abundance of black book spoilers, and you get more of esterin's adventures lol, as this goes, but then i changed my mind and then it was just 'hunter doesn't black book', hi we're continuing to get Even More AU bc i save who i want and now we gotta deal with it lmao, hm think that's everyone w significant lines, yeah this was originally 'hunter does black book'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirta/pseuds/Kirta
Summary: Nearly two weeks have passed since the battle before the Black Gate. You would rather be doing nearly anything else besides resting.The Black Book of Mordor
Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562503
Comments: 16
Kudos: 11





	1. a break

**Author's Note:**

> [title note i probably should have added earlier- borrowed from 'castle of glass' by linkin park]
> 
> things i wasn't expecting: *gestures broadly at 2020* anyway i got to play mordor/minas morgul way earlier than i ever expected to and uhhhh yeah. here we are

The first few days since the Battle of the Black Gate have been a blessed relief, and truth be told you are weak enough and in enough pain that you have no desire to do much beyond sleep or wander the grounds at Cormallen. You are more than once shooed back to a cot or a seat by well-meaning friends and strangers alike, and it grows old very, very quickly. Even if they are right. You have yet to recover the strength for any serious rune-work, leaving you with little choice but to let yourself rest, however painfully slow it feels.

You do push yourself, eventually, and the effort leaves you out cold among the trees that ring the field. It is dark when you wake and Golodir is kneeling beside you, calling your name.

“I am alright,” you assure him. “I was only resting.” You sit up, slowly, and do not quite manage to hide a wince. Golodir makes a disbelieving sound and carefully helps you the rest of the way up. You thank him and he sighs.

“Between you and Corunir…” There is exasperation and fondness both in his voice and you smile. There is silence for a time and you wonder what to say. You take a breath.

“We have not had the chance to speak much since the Pelennor,” you start. You were avoiding me, you do not add, and brace yourself for an unpleasant conversation. You may yet have his anger for your actions, but even so your only regret will be for a broken friendship.

Golodir is silent for a long minute. “I still believe it would have been for the best if you had let me go that day, even if-” he stops. Starts again. You try to keep your face neutral. “I might have known some peace. If my life is truly what keeps Mordirith in this world, it would be well worth losing it to see him ended.”

“We do not know that for certain,” you say, sharper than you intend. You try to calm yourself but it is hard, harder even than you expected. “We have only his words on the matter, and we know well enough how much those are worth.” Even if you knew Mordirith was right in this, or could be trusted, you would have done the same. "Neither are the rest of us so eager to lose you." He sighs and lays a hand on your shoulder.

“Peace, my friend. I understand why you did it, even if I do not entirely agree.”

You grip Golodir’s hand with your own. “We will end this yet. I swear it.” Quieter, you add: “For whatever it may be worth, I am sorry for taking the choice from you, but I am glad it worked.”

Another minute passes. “It may be some time still before we have the chance or the need to deal with him again,” Golodir says. “What news we have thus far says he retreated into Mordor after the Pelennor. The hope is that we can learn more after establishing a foothold on the far side of Cirith Gorgor but…” he trails off and gives you a hard look. “No.”

You frown. “No?”

“You are not going with us on the first push beyond the Black Gate.”

You snort. “You think you are going to stop me?”

“I think your wounds will stop you,” he says bluntly. You have no good answer to that. You are mildly less sore now than you had been before your impromptu nap, but it seems all your premature attempt at the runes accomplished was putting you to sleep. You grumble some, but soon enough you are near nodding off again and you walk with Golodir back to the field and you part in peace. 

There is talk among those gathered at Cormallen the next few days of what is to come. Any of the wounded that are well enough to make the journey will return to Minas Tirith and the care of the Houses of Healing. Many of those who remain will pass beyond the ruins of the Morannon and begin the long work of dealing with what Sauron left behind.

To your lasting annoyance (if in accordance with your better judgement), you are grouped with the former by everyone you talk to. You might have stayed anyway, but Golodir pulls you aside one afternoon and asks you to go, for Corunir’s sake.

“He won’t go for his own sake, alone, but he may be convinced if he is not the only one leaving.”

And so reluctantly you agree, though it will be several days yet until you will depart. You pass the time talking with whoever remains. You spend several hours in deep discussion with Annoth, one of the southern rangers, and he tells you the whole sorry tale of Durthand and the Thandrim. The next day he is gone, off beyond the gates with a number of other rangers. Two days later you are loading yourself into a wagon with Corunir to allow yourself to be carted back to the city. Nona and Horn join you, bickering about something inconsequential with smiles on their faces. Horn’s arm is still swathed in bandages but he seems otherwise healthy when he climbs into the wagon beside you. Nona waves to Golodir as he approaches. 

"I am surprised," she admits, eyeing the assembled passengers. Golodir gives her a small smile.

"I told you it would work." Nona laughs and takes the seat beside you, and neither she nor Golodir explain as the wagon rolls away. The skies clear and the wind blows fresh on your face and you have to admit you are not sorry to spend less time in Mordor.

It isn’t until you and Corunir compare stories, watching the dawn over Osgiliath in the distance several days later, that you realize Golodir told you both the same thing to convince you to get in the wagon. You can manage no more than a vague irritation, and even that is fleeting, but Corunir cannot say the same. His mood has been dark since the second day out from Cormallen, and this realization has only made it worse. It takes no small amount of cajoling, but at last he sighs and gives you an answer.

“I am not fond of being left behind,” he says quietly, almost as if ashamed. “However justified it may be.” He shakes his head. “Even before the Rammas Deluon…” He falls silent again and you press him no further. He has told you little enough of his time separated from the rest of his company before your arrival in Angmar, the years of waiting and hoping against hope that Golodir and Lorniel and the rest would return, but what he has said tells you enough. You lay a comforting hand on his arm.

“We will catch up to them soon enough.” His response is noncommittal and you hold back a sigh.

You track down Horn later that day to reclaim your runestones. It takes several attempts and, ultimately, a second opinion on your health, but he at last returns them and you retreat to a private corner. You had believed your words to Horn, and you do feel strong enough now to sustain your invocations, but the real test will be in the attempt.

You do not collapse this time, and though your own wounds heal rather less than you were hoping for, it is more a property of the hurts themselves than a sign of your own strength or ability. You return to Horn and Nona with a triumphant smile and ignore Nona’s smug look, even if her suggestion to let someone else hold your runestones for a time was a good one. Horn’s arm is well on its way to health and well past a need for the runes. Corunir’s leg is not as fortunate which, though painful and generally unpleasant for him, means you can actually be of some use. He stands on both feet and grins fit to split his face, and you think he might try to march after Golodir then and there if he had not already promised to meet Radanir and Lothrandir later that night.

“This city is impressive,” Nona says after Corunir has left. “I will give it that much. I still much prefer the sunset in the mountains above Lhanuch.” She looks you over and you see a wrinkle of concern in her expression. “You are certain you are healing well?” You laugh off her worries with easy reassurances, but the ache in your chest gives doubt to your words. Nona seems to believe you, at least, and that is what matters. You are well enough to travel and you are quite done sitting around and so, even if it is a bad idea, you act as if you are fine.

“You sound like you are ready to leave,” you say, mostly teasing. Nona makes a face and Horn laughs at her.

“Nor is she the only one,” he says. “I would like to know how Eaworth has fared, and to learn what has become of Corudan.”

“I worry for Corudan, too,” Nona says. “And for my home. Radanir said my father was well when he passed through but that Lhanuch had been assaulted by the Draig-lûth. That was nearly two months ago.” She stares north for a long moment. “I made a promise, too, to another of your rangers, to find a number of the Falcon outcasts who spoke against Lheu Brenin and paid for it.”

“May he rot,” you add sourly, old anger stirring anew. You frown. “ _My_ rangers?”

Nona gives you a lopsided smile. “I suppose I have grown rather fond of some of them, too.”

“Wh-”

“Are you _not_ planning to follow them beyond the Gate?” 

“I had hardly _planned_ anything,” you mutter. Nona snorts.

“You are far more worried for them than you are for Corudan or your home in the north.” She doesn’t say it accusingly at all, but it still stings, all the more so for it being the truth. There is very little you can do for Corudan now even if you knew where he had gone, and Thranduil’s realm is well-protected and, as far as you are concerned, in considerably less danger than a number of other parts of Middle-earth. “For my part, I have no desire to see the Black Land. The Gate was more than close enough.”

You hardly disagree on that count. Still, she is right to think you intend to go anyway. You are as intent as Corunir on catching up to the others- and lingering in the back of your mind, as it has since that day in Osgiliath, the problem of Mordirith. You sigh. “If you see no other sign of him, you might try to find a sentry who will speak with you in Lothlórien. Corudan may have returned to his home if he could not find us. Sigileth may know something of her brother, too.” Nona nods along, though Horn looks less than pleased by the prospect of visiting the Dwimmordene again.

Radanir and Lothrandir are planning their own return north. There are a number of practical reasons for some of the rangers to return. Many of them are related to the internal politics of the Dúnedain that you know little of outside of what you have heard your friends complain about, but the other reasons are more personal, you suspect. Lothrandir even more than most has been beaten by this journey and has earned some measure of peace. He and Radanir plan to travel with Horn and Nona at least as far as Eaworth, perhaps as far as Lhanuch depending on any number of as-yet-unforeseen incidents.

The day before they are set to depart north, and you and Corunir east, a wagon rolls into Minas Tirith bearing some of the soldiers and adventurers who have already seen beyond the Morannon. Braigiar is among them, and most of a band of treasure-seekers, and accompanying the whole lot atop Shadowfax, Gandalf. You have the dubious fortune of being near the gate for their arrival and are summarily given charge of one Ayorzén the Wily for the afternoon.

“Why?” you ask.

Gandalf leans on his staff and studies you with centuries of enigmatic wisdom. "I was rather hoping because I had asked it of you." He casts a glance Ayorzén's way. "And perhaps because he might tell you something of use."

Ayorzén the Talkative does indeed tell you many things. Some of it is even useful, underneath all the flourishes, and if nothing else it is more entertaining than annoying. Ayorzén seems to like you well enough by the time you finally part ways, but you really aren't certain either way. You meet your friends for one last meal before you set out, tucked into a hidden corner in the second circle. For all you have been together near constantly for the last two weeks, you suddenly find a thousand things to talk about and stay long into the night. Braigiar admits eventually that Dagoras had all but ordered him out of Mordor after more than one meeting with the watch-stones that dot Gorgoroth. 

“They seem to be very interested in chatting with me in particular,” Braigiar says with sour humor. “Dagoras told me to stay away from the whole sorry place until I could take two steps without another spirit trying to have a conversation in my head.” His tone is light but he doesn’t quite stop a shiver and he seems to drag himself back to the present only with great difficulty. Horn watches him, then and later as the night wears on.

“Come north with us,” Horn says to Braigiar as the evening ends. He nods at Radanir and Lothrandir. “We have planned already to travel together at least into Rohan.”

Perhaps he sees something familiar in Braigiar. Perhaps, too, he is right. Braigiar makes no promises there, but the next morning he follows the others out through the shell of the city’s gates. He hands you a thin journal with a rushed explanation and an admonition not to trust any of the watch-stones’ spirits. You page through the journal as you head with Corunir towards Osgiliath and Mordor beyond. It contains Braigiar’s notes on the watch-stones- in the later pages, at least. The earlier ones seem to be his own personal journal kept during the Grey Company’s travels. There had been no time to make a copy. You flip ahead as soon as you realize this, wanting to preserve as much of Braigiar’s privacy as you can- even if your curiosity suddenly increases threefold the moment you decide not to pry. You mark the pages containing the relevant notes and quickly come to the conclusion that there are far too many of these stones in Mordor. It is probably for the best that Braigiar goes beyond their reach. You glance at Corunir, deep in his own thoughts. He has his own share of bad experiences with watch-stones.

Udûn reeks of smoke and sulfur, but at least it is largely passable. You and Corunir stop briefly at the camp perched above the forgeworks and make for the ruins of Díngarth, where last Golodir was seen.

His face is comical when he sees the two of you. Corunir insists that his leg is, in fact, quite healed, and you can only laugh at Golodir’s sullen acceptance. It pulls at the heavy scabbing on your chest and back and it hurts, but you ignore it. Gimli is here in the ruins as well, though he leaves soon after your arrival with a company of dwarves that are entirely unfamiliar to you. Legolas has just passed west into Lhingris and Dagoras has gone south and east with Culang. Mithrendan and Amlan intend to follow after them, and after some discussion Brungos goes too, leaving you to circle the other direction around the wreck of Orodruin with Corunir and Golodir on the heels of Faeron and Rhadrog. You hardly know the Ithilien ranger, but he had seemed friendly enough at Cormallen.

The road to Agarnaith takes you far too close to the ruins of Barad-dûr for comfort. The ruined fortress to your left and the fires of the mountain set loose to your right, you actually breathe a sigh of relief upon entering the Bloody Gore. For all the refugees and prisoners of Mordor seemed to fear this place as much or more than the Dark Tower, there is something about a living swamp- corrupted as it may be- that sets you at ease in a way that the cold terror that still rolls off Barad-dûr in waves very much does not. From their faces, it seems Golodir and Corunir do not share this sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops est missed the first several chapters of black book lol


	2. what lies beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, 'it's a terrible day in agarnaith and you are a lovely goblin'

You expect Faeron to be difficult to find, even for other rangers. You do not expect to find him in the middle of the beaten dirt path that runs through Agarnaith cursing out a goblin. You have hardly made it in earshot before the goblin cackles and sprints into the swamp. Faeron follows the goblin and you follow him, but a group of unhealthy-looking orcs beats you to your prize. Faeron huffs in frustration as the last of the ones that turn on you fall, but he falls back from the pursuit when Rhadrog calls his name and follows it with a bout of coughing. 

Rhadrog sits heavily on a stump outside the goblin’s hideout and waves aimlessly behind him. “I found our stuff,” he says weakly. Faeron pats his shoulder as he rushes into the hollow. You study Rhadrog.

“Are you alright?”

He makes a face. “I may have breathed in some of the foulness that makes this place so horrid.” He scowls. Faeron shouts triumphantly from within the hideout. “Mushrooms are not supposed to _explode_.” You think of some of the more interesting varieties of fungus you came across in Moria.

“There are one or two types that will do that.”

None of the medicines Faeron is so excited to recover have any effect on Rhadrog. At the very least, though, they do not seem to have made things any worse. Faeron keeps his face carefully blank, but the look Rhadrog shoots him says he is hardly unreadable.

“The goblin claimed to know a way to deal with the sickness,” Faeron says, pacing the crowded interior of the hideout. It is not intended for four people of your height. “If he has been living here as long as it seems, he must have figured out _something_. We will just have to hope those orcs don’t have too much of a lead…” Corunir’s head appears in the entryway.

“There is an orc village not far from here. I didn’t get close, but it seemed to be where the orcs were headed with your goblin.”

Faeron starts, as if he had quite forgotten he wasn’t alone here. He mutters something and gathers his scattered supplies. He takes a last look at Rhadrog and his face tightens. He turns to you. “Will you stay with him? I would not leave him here alone, and if we are too slow you might be able to…” He gestures vaguely at your rune-bag.

“I don’t…” What exactly Faeron expects you to do is unclear, perhaps as much to him as to you. What exactly you are capable of doing is more certain, but you meet Faeron’s eye and you know that if he fails to find the goblin, he is pinning all his hopes on you. If it comes to that, you will fail him and you know it, but he will not leave without the reassurance he thinks you can provide and if Rhadrog is to have any chance at all Faeron _needs to leave_. “Of course.” He nods once and follows after Corunir, and Golodir follows after him. You sigh to yourself and turn to Rhadrog, who offers you a faint smile.

“There is nothing you can do for me, is there?” You wince because it is true, but you shake your head and dig through your bag.

“I would hardly call it _nothing_.” But your rudimentary skill at casting out toxins does nothing- you invoke the runes and a painful-looking splinter drops from Rhadrog’s hand, but whatever this disease of the Bloody Gore is, you can find nothing to gain purchase on and after several attempts you are forced to admit defeat. Rhadrog’s breathing sounds worse, now, and he is coughing more often. He is shivering, too, so you build up a small fire in the rough pit the goblin has dug for the purpose and wrap one of the reclaimed blankets around his shoulders.

Rhadrog mutters a number of uncomplimentary things about the swamp, coughs some more, and groans. “You know a thing or two about these exploding mushrooms?” And so you talk, starting with the globsnaga blight in Khazad-dûm and letting the conversation flow. Rhadrog talks less and less as the hours wear on and he shifts around as if no position is comfortable. He sheds the blanket and the fire dies, and instead of cold he seems too hot now, and that is more difficult to address. You etch runes of ice and sustained effect into a stone and wrap it in a scrap of cloth and it seems to bring some relief. Not as that rune is intended, but if it takes Faeron and the others more than a few more hours to return, your ability to maintain it will be a moot point anyway.

It doesn’t, to your relief. The goblin leads the rangers into the hideout and introduces himself as if this is an everyday occurrence. He looks closely at Rhadrog and if you did not know any better you would say Viznak was worried.

“Hey, Grumpy, you might wanna hurry up with that drink. Green-cloak isn’t looking so good.”

Faeron mutters to himself as he crushes several handfuls of… you really do not want to know what. Faeron sniffs at it skeptically. “You are quite sure this is not poisonous to us?”

“Of course!” Viznak says, offended. “It’s tasty!” You rather think his opinions on taste throw aspersions on all his other judgements.

“It can hardly… hurt…” Rhadrog manages. He cannot do it alone, but he chokes down a portion of the horrid-smelling brew. Everyone watches him for any sign of change, even Viznak. A silent ten minutes pass until at last Rhadrog sighs. “I feel a bit better?” Viznak beams.

“See? Told you!” He laughs. “Now you just sleep. Better when you wake up.” It takes little more prompting to get Rhadrog to lie down. Viznak tucks the discarded blanket haphazardly around Rhadrog and turns on the rest of you. “You gotta drink it, too, or soon you’ll be the sick ones.” You eye the bowl of swamp-sludge. None of the others seem eager to be the first to take the brew either. You sigh and take a large drink, thinking hard of anything besides what you are swallowing. You are not at all successful and your friends laugh at the face you make. You keep it down, barely, but you immediately dig through your bags for anything at all that can take the lingering taste of swamp out of your mouth. There isn’t much that will do the trick, and you take what consolation you can from the others’ faces as they too suffer the drink.

Viznak seems honestly pleased to have so many visitors in his home who are, if not exactly friendly, at the very least not hostile. Faeron at least is making the attempt to keep up a healthy suspicion, but even he is being slowly won over by Viznak’s endearing cheeriness. A friendly goblin is nearly the last thing you expected to encounter in Mordor, but you suppose the place is already strange enough, and Agarnaith even more so than the rest. Viznak appoints you all his bodyguards, something you are unsure is a promotion or demotion. Even Rhadrog, who has done little besides sleep for two days, receives this honor. Viznak leads the rest of you on outings through the swamp and delights in the chaos you cause in Kala-gijak with the Nêbh Rûdh.

“This was a great plan! You guys are the best bodyguards,” he laughs, handing you a bowl. He keeps trying new concoctions, and though none have been quite as unappetizing as the Agarnaith antidote, that is about all that may be said for them. He keeps trying, though, determined to find one that his bodyguards will enjoy as much as he does. He watches you dutifully try this latest attempt. To your horror, you have nearly become accustomed to the taste of horrible swamp.

“Well?” Viznak demands. You grope for something to say while Corunir laughs silently at you behind Viznak’s back.

“It could use some salt,” you say, reaching for your bags.

“You carry salt with you?” Rhadrog asks as you produce a small wooden box.

“A little bit of seasoning can make all the difference,” you say defensively. You are starting to run low, though. You sprinkle a pinch into the bowl and offer it back to Viznak. His face lights up when he tries it and he snatches your salt and starts adding it to the rest of the mismatched bowls he has filled with swamp-stew.

Corunir and Rhadrog look less than thrilled to receive their bowls, and all but drop them in relief when Golodir and Faeron return. They have a letter taken from an orc messenger. The penmanship is fine but it takes all of your efforts combined to muddle through a translation from the Black Speech. Even Viznak struggles with it, the language of the letter far more refined than what he knows.

What lieutenants of Sauron remain plan a meeting to order their new world. You know little enough of them, but between Braigiar’s notes and the rangers’ reports you piece together a picture of the situation. Viznak has commentary enough on the others, but at the mention of Lhaereth the Stained he falls silent. The rangers know little about her, besides that she rules from Seregost at the edge of Agarnaith. You know what Ayorzén had to say of Sweet Lara and the children’s song of the plague-bringer. Rather like Viznak, the Lady of Blight seemed to be the one lieutenant Ayorzén truly feared. The others had warranted at most a wary distance by his account, but nothing more.

“We need to know what is said at this meeting.” A Mordor divided by infighting and power jockeying is dangerous enough, but if they come to any manner of unity, no matter how tenuous, unpreparedness on the part of the Free Peoples could spell disaster.

It takes some planning, and no small amount of luck, but you get hold of a disguise and news of the place of the meeting. You spend nearly as long arguing over who should go. The greater the number of the infiltrators the higher the chance of drawing attention. None of you- save Viznak, who would not go even if you begged it of him- have more than a passing familiarity with the Black Speech, but Mincham was dead before the Morannon and Saeradan is well out of reach, and after them you and Corunir might honestly be the next most fluent among the surviving Grey Company. Some of the Ithilien rangers or even the treasure hunters who have ranged beyond the Black Gate might know more, but you have not the time to track them down. The disguise itself makes the final choice in the matter. Corunir, and the other rangers too, are too tall and too bulky to pass for Nurnhoth, between the blood of Númenor and years of fighting and ranging the wild. Reluctantly, they at last agree and you make your way to Amon Thaur alone. For all you know why you can hardly turn up with an escort, you still wish you had more than their well-wishes for company.

You can put a name to nearly everyone of prominence as they arrive. There is Dulgabêth, the Mouth of Sauron, who you spied from afar before the battle was joined at the Black Gate, and his knights. There is Urudanî Stonemaiden, who perhaps needs a new moniker now that she is made of flame, and there Borangos the Horror who holds her in thrall. Their story you know from Braigiar’s encounters with the spirit Zaghárog. And there, Lhaereth the Stained, presiding over the meeting she has called, no matter Dulgabêth’s bluster. You have seen merrevail and mervyl enough in your travels, but not even the greatest of them can match Lhaereth in majesty. She carries herself like a queen among her servants. Even the ancient rogmul earns no more than glancing looks from the Lady of the Bloodfort. 

At last comes Ugrukhôr, Captain of the Pit, and the summit begins. You follow the conversation more easily than you expected, but there are still large parts of it you miss. Urudanî turns her fire towards you and you can feel something prying and you shrink against the wall among the other Nurnhoth and pull your hood closer, hoping it does enough to obscure your elven features. Lhaereth screams of failure and it draws the Stonemaiden’s attention from you. Dulgabêth lies before her, twitching, at the mercy of whatever plague or poison Lhaereth has unleashed upon him. Ugrukhôr bows before her and even Borangos lowers himself. She speaks again of a failure, and a head, and a place whose name you do not recognize. Her merrevail acclaim her with their cries and the Masters of Mordor depart.

You could leave now, you think, as the Nurnhoth are ordered harshly down from the tower. Slip away, make for the foothold camp, but there are too many eyes here, and all of them on edge. You could stay with the Nurnhoth, destined for Seregost and Lhaereth’s experiments, but every moment you remain here is another chance for disaster if you are discovered. For all you had been the least conspicuous choice for this, you are still no child of Nurn and it is all too obvious. You linger at the fringes of the Nurnhoth for hours as they trudge towards Agarnaith, and they look so resigned and so exhausted and you wish there was something you could do for them, but even those who know a few words of Westron will say nothing to you and so, as soon as you are able, you leave them.

You never thought you would be so happy to see the swamp, but you pass the gates that restrain the Bloody Gore and you feel your whole body relax. You are well ahead of the Nurnhoth, though you keep an eye on the skies for Lhaereth’s winged host returning.

Corunir is standing guard outside Viznak’s hideout when you make it back, watching the swamp. He embraces you with a relieved laugh and ushers you inside.

“We were starting to worry.”

The others are all here, though Faeron and Rhadrog look a bit the worse for wear and Viznak is hunched in a corner, draped in Faeron’s grey cloak. He brightens noticeably at your entry and laughs.

“You’re alive! Good thing, too. Got something else for you to try.” He bustles around the cramped interior as you tell your story, piping in to clarify any words you did not know.

“Blight Lady is getting married?” he says incredulously, a bowl in one hand and your box of salt in the other.

“I think she killed her fiancé, so perhaps not.”

“Huh.” Viznak hands you the bowl and adds a generous amount of salt. This looks almost appetizing. Too much salt, though. Rhadrog opens his mouth too late to say anything, and he watches you eat Viznak’s special dish while getting steadily greener. You probably would rather not know. You ask Viznak about the hiding place Lhaereth spoke of.

“Oh, that’s the Dead City.” He waves vaguely west-south. “On the other side of the spiders. Witch-king used to live there, I think, but now it’s just Gothmog.”

Of course. You trade looks with Golodir and Corunir. It _is_ a large part of what you are here to find, but having the knowledge now means that you must do something with it, and when it comes to it, you are not altogether eager to face Mordirith again. The Morgul Vale is still well protected though, by its own defenders and by everything in between here and there that will try to kill you as quickly as the False King. You sigh.

“We need to get back to the foothold camp,” you say. Golodir nods agreement.

“The meeting or the contents of Seregost alone would be important enough to warrant the trip back.”

You frown. “Seregost?”

Viznak’s face is smug. “Blight Lady won’t be too happy when she gets home.”

“We snuck in while you were away,” Faeron says, his expression a match for Viznak’s. “She has been working on a second Great Plague, but it will take her some time to replenish her stores of it now.”

“And you said my part was foolhardy,” you say mildly. Faeron laughs but Rhadrog at least shrugs a concession.

You make ready to leave the next morning. Viznak doesn’t hide his disappointment at losing all of his company as abruptly as he had gained it. You almost suggest bringing him with you, but Viznak is the first to point out that the others helming the conquest of Mordor likely would not be as friendly towards a goblin as you, no matter what you said on his behalf. He is not wrong, but you still feel surprisingly guilty about leaving him here alone. You give him your little box of salt before you leave- much lighter now than it had been on your arrival- and promise you will have some other seasonings for him next time you see him, knowing all the while you can hardly promise you _will_ see him again, much less in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viznak is my favorite


	3. homeward bound

You find Gandalf has come to the foothold camp above the plateau, and hours of long conversation and speculation follow. You speak of the summit of the powers of Mordor, of the death Lhaereth brewed in Seregost, of the Gúrzyul, the Deathless of Mordor. The next week is spent in uneasy waiting and filled with watching. Armies have begun to move through Mordor in greater numbers than they have since the beginning of the conquest, though they are perhaps not as united as Lhaereth might wish. Your friends are scattered across the plateau when you return from Durthang with Annoth. You repeat Plákash’s last words to yourself as you pass near-empty forgeworks, hoping that anything new will reveal itself.

“What was that last word?” Annoth asks. You repeat it. Then you translate it. Hill of Sorcery. _Dol Guldur_. So it seems the search for this Weeping Warrior, another of Sauron’s undying faithful, will be far wider in scope than you thought.

“You had best go at once, if you mean to find anything in Dol Guldur!” Gandalf says. “The Golden Host is preparing to raze the fortress to its foundations.”

“What?”

Gandalf whistles shrilly and Shadowfax approaches. Gandalf speaks quietly with the lordly horse for a moment then turns back to you. “Shadowfax will return you to Minas Tirith, and from there you will have to find your own way to Mirkwood.” He pushes you gently but firmly towards Shadowfax over your protests. “Do not worry. I will make sure your rangers know what has become of you when they return.” You find yourself on Shadowfax’s back, quite unsure how you got here. “I would go myself, but there is still far too much to do here. Good luck!”

“Wait-” But Shadowfax is already running and you nearly lose your seat before making it out of Mordor. Past the ruins of the Black Gate, past Dagorlad, past the marshes. Valla was fast, but Shadowfax puts her to shame without a hint of effort. Through Ithilien, across the Pelennor. The trip takes a fraction of the time your journey to Mordor had. You blink and slide to the ground, staring up at Minas Tirith and then at Shadowfax. He snorts, and if you could put a mood to a horse you would call him self-satisfied. 

“Thank you,” you say. He tosses his head and turns away, and you walk into the city windblown and stiff from the long ride.

There are few enough horses to be found within Minas Tirith after the siege, even now, but with a good amount of arguing- and some help from one Strider, dressed as a ranger- you are riding north, albeit at a much more sedate pace than Shadowfax’s.

You come to the eaves of Lothlórien and smell smoke. Your loaned Gondorian horse is exhausted from the journey and you are no better, but unlike her you have farther yet to go. You meet Cúcheron on the border and he laughs when you hug him and leads you to Caras Galadhon. Much as you might wish for a night’s rest, or even an hour’s, you learn quickly enough that the destruction of Dol Guldur is imminent, if not already complete. 

“Still in the middle of it, I see,” Cúcheron says with a smile. He goes with you to the docks, where Issuriel waits with a familiar horse. Lakewind near bowls you over and you laugh at him.

“I know,” you say. “It has been too long.” Not as long as it feels, certainly, but long enough. You look at Cúcheron and Issuriel, watching you with fond smiles, and your face falls. “I am sorry I cannot stay long. I wish I could.”

Issuriel nods sagely. “You are, of course, needed elsewhere.” She grins. “You will stop long enough to say goodbye, though, won’t you?”

You want to swear it. Before you can, you and Lakewind are urged away and before long you are across the Anduin. Issuriel and Cúcheron wave to you as you go and soon enough you lose them to the distance. You wonder where Sigileth is as you ride through the southern reaches of Mirkwood. Like the others, you haven’t seen her since the end of the Hidden Guard’s mission. She had been badly hurt in the last assault on the tower and even in your brief stop in Lórien with Nona you had not had the chance to visit.

Sigileth is, it turns out, back in the thick of the fight. Her daggers are significantly more scored than they had been before. She is surprised to see you, that much is clear, but you can do no more than squeeze her hand in greeting before rushing off to find the Lord and Lady.

There is little enough to be learned here before Galadriel unleashes the full might of her ring and her own power. Some artifacts are gathered before the destruction, but it will be some time before you will know if any of them are the one the Weeping Warrior seeks, the mysterious Bugdatish.

In the lull in the wake of Galadriel’s assault you and Sigileth at last find the chance to speak.

“Corudan told me you were in Mordor,” she says, almost accusingly.

“I was,” you say. “Mithrandir sent me north to- Corudan?”

Talk of Mordor is entirely derailed. Corudan had, it seems, returned to Lórien after being forced farther and farther from Helm’s Deep by both Saruman’s army and the huorns of Fangorn, who were not terribly discriminate in who they stepped on. No more than two weeks ago, Nona had come to the edge of the Golden Wood asking after him.

“It was quite the group,” Sigileth says with an odd smile. “The Dunlending woman of course, and with her a man of Rohan and a handful of northern Dúnedain.” She shrugs. “They did not stay long and Corudan left soon after, but what news we had from them was nearly as strange as they themselves.” Sigileth gives you a smile. “In truth, I more than half expected to find you among them.” You should have been, part of you thinks. The other part is just glad to know Nona and the others had made it at least this far safely, and that Corudan is alive and in good health.

You are soon summoned to report to the Lord and Lady on affairs in the south. To your shock, your own lord is there. Thranduil is dressed for battle as Celeborn and Galadriel are and you bow deeply before them all. Legolas was always friendly enough even before the past year’s adventures that you could at times forget that he was prince of Mirkwood- of Eryn Lasgalen. Thranduil has never lost any of his royal distance to your mind.

“Your home is always open to you,” he says. “But I understand that things more pressing have drawn you here. You are welcome to return to Felegoth with me. My scholars will have an answer regarding the Bugdatish one way or another soon enough.”

Your mind freezes. Home. It has been decades since you were there. The house is empty but for memories but… return? Do you want that? You start as you realize the Elvenking is awaiting an answer from you. “I would be honored.” Your home was not in Felegoth anyway but in Loeglond on the lake. You have some time yet.

Sigileth promises to give Issuriel and Cúcheron your goodbyes and sees you off with the others of Thranduil’s party. Lakewind sniffs at the elven horses all around him and you laugh, patting him fondly.

The caverns of Felegoth are as magnificent as you remember, if slightly less intimidating than they had been on your first visit as a child. You are still quite easily lost, though you find your way soon enough. You recognize several faces here, and many people wave to you in greeting, but you knew them no more than in passing and if they beg news of you, it is of the world and the war, not of yourself. The scholars poring over the artifacts looted from Dol Guldur question you about your experiences with the items and about anything you had seen in Mordor or the tower that might hint at their purpose, but they invite no further aid from you. You see Celion, your very first teacher in the art of words of power, and she gives you a friendly smile but nothing else. Suddenly feeling out of place, you wander the halls of the Elvenking until you stumble over Radagast tending to young saplings. 

“Hello!” he says cheerfully. “Are you terribly busy at the moment?”

Until the scholars have an answer about the Bugdatish, your search cannot continue in any meaningful way. “Not at all,” you say, and are immediately swept into Radagast’s quest to restore Eryn Lasgalen to all its green-leafed glory.

The stones of Caras Tilion echo your footsteps back to you and the wind in the ruins is a thousand sighs. This place was abandoned long before you were born but still there is a whisper of something here. You close your eyes and listen until you catch the creak of leather straps and the ring metal plates against each other. You follow it and find a shadow, armored, standing guard as if at watch. You think to leave it in peace, but it seems to think you an invader and gives you no choice. Age-old armor clatters to the ground and the shadow disperses with a long breath. You find nothing there to explain the blight upon the forest- only an empty chest and a pile of rust. You stop. The chest is tarnished, but it is not iron- it wouldn’t rust. The shades’ armor is preserved by the same force that keeps the spirits here. What, then? You find no answers.

Neither do the scholars have answers. None of the artifacts appear to be the one Karazgar seeks and you are sent east after the possibility that you will find a different answer in Lake-town or Dale or Erebor. You are given, too, a message for the elves at Loeglond, which you had rather hoped to avoid entirely.

The message at least is a quick and painless task. No one here knows anything about Karazagar. You are not surprised. He exists on a level of trouble that only concerns the people here when it falls upon them, and the Gúrzyul likely care just as little about Loeglond.

You nearly make it out of the town. 

Your old neighbors are well-meaning and friendly and they _care_ , and that makes it all the worse. You are polite, of course, but you insist that you have pressing business at Lake-town, really, and you must be going, and you are so very sorry that you cannot stay and catch up. You do not quite flee and you very much do not look at your family’s empty home or think of the terrible, terrible loneliness after the last departure. Even more than within the haunted stones of Caras Tilion you wish you were not alone here. You pretend the ache in your chest is only from your mostly-healed injuries, exacerbated by the bar fight in Lake-town.

Authi talks at length of his father and brother, gone across the Misty Mountains on some errand. You remember them well enough. The Grey Company’s Bebarahir were Gem-cutter craft, and those you remember quite well. The road to the Lonely Mountain passes quickly with company and Authi tells you any number of stories he has heard in the Dragonbone and elsewhere about Karazgar in recent years. The talk of him you had heard before the brawl had felt more recent, the fear of him closer and far more immediate. You found a track of powdery rust in the underbelly of Lake-town, so very like that in Caras Tilion, but this is no more than another curiosity. 

“That girl could almost be your sister,” Authi says as you leave, nodding at a young woman hauling an empty crate around the corner.

“A cousin several times removed at most,” you say absently, and ignore Authi's look, as if he's not entirely sure if it is a joke.

You stop in Dale for a meal and a drink and you listen to the talk around you. You and Authi have nearly cleared the northern gate of the city when shouts reach you. You have come to know the sound of anger that presages violence and it has been years since your first instinct was to distance yourself. Authi follows you looking for a fight, and is disappointed when there isn’t one. You see Enkárvo safely on his way but before you can become any more entangled Authi drags you impatiently away.

“You need information on Karazgar, don’t you,” he demands. “You will not likely find it here.” You reluctantly agree and follow him to Erebor, though it sits uneasily on your mind for several days, until a messenger from Dale brings rumor of the near-murder of the young king and of the Weeping Warrior sighted, and of a list of names that turn the heads of every dwarf who knows their old tales. Dragons all, and many at least suspected to be under Sauron’s sway one way or another. It seems the Dark Lord had Karazgar to thank for such servants.

Authi takes you to his home and introduces you to his mother, and you give in to the Gem-cutter brand of hospitality with a smile, even if you must bend double to enter the Jewelstead. Gandalf arrives at Erebor not long after you do and sets about his own investigations. You try to press him for news of Mordor but he will say little beyond a distracted reassurance that your friends are in good health and as well as can be expected. You know now where Karazgar has been and when with some certainty, but you are no closer to finding where he will be or is. He seems to have some interest in Smaug’s bones, newly revealed in the ruins of Esgaroth-of-old, but that too tells you little.

You hear other stories too, and no few of interest from one Khîl Tale-spinner. He is a skilled storyteller, whatever the truthfulness of the stories themselves may be. Local opinion varies on that count. Authi in particular takes exception to Khîl’s tales, outraged that such things are being said of his family. You listen to his rant with amused patience. Eventually he goes to confront Khîl himself. It goes poorly, and he returns to Mesem-azhâr in a worse temper than he had left in. Mother Amma raps his head with her knuckles and reminds him pointedly of the Gem-cutter rules. Still furious, he glares at her, opens the front door, and takes one step out before turning back to you and continuing the rant at full volume. Amma shuts the door in his face.

It doesn’t take long for Authi to come back inside, noticeably calmer. He announces then that he has no choice but to take the matter before the King Under the Mountain- and insists that you accompany him as a witness, quite over your protests.

Thorin III Stonehelm is evidently a very patient dwarf, a good quality in a king. He listens to Authi and Khîl, and to you when Authi insists on your authority as a witness. And then he orders them both to Járnfast. You bite your tongue to keep from laughing at their faces, mirrors of each other, but Thorin takes notice and meets your eye.

“But the road is dangerous, and three will travel as swiftly as two, and more safely. You will of course accompany them, will you not?” Both Authi and Khîl turn to look at you. You can hardly deny a king in the middle of his own court, even if he is no king of yours.

They make for terrible traveling companions. Gandalf had only laughed at you when you spoke before your departure, saying that you had best get to packing. Khîl largely ignores Authi’s barbs for all of one day, and after that they do nothing but bicker their way through the shrubs of the Iron Hills. At one point you are forced to drop lightning between them before they can come to blows. They stare first at the scorched ground and then at you, and the display earns you nearly an hour of quiet.

“Really, I usually am better than this,” Khîl grumbles one night. Authi is out of earshot, gathering sticks. You hum noncommittally. You are hardly planning to take sides, but you do have to admit that Authi seems to have an unusual proficiency for making himself unignorable.

At long last you make it to Járnfast. Khîl has been unusually quiet today, hardly even engaging with Authi. It takes several hours, but Authi at last seems to take notice. He retreats to lighter-hearted jabs and directs more of them at you. If Khîl notices, he says nothing. He invites the two of you to his father’s home with forced cheer. You think of how little you want to revisit your own home alone and accept.

The place is dusty and cobwebbed, but it seems to have suffered more from the recent upheavals of the earth than the larger passage of time. Authi has since vanished, but you and Khîl spend the better part of the day setting things back in their place and making the home more or less habitable again. It will take quite a bit longer than a single afternoon to truly finish, but for now it is at least less crypt-like.

“What’s this?” Khîl mutters, running his hands over a stretch of wall you think indistinguishable from the rest. He shoves at a stone desk out of the way and traces the outline of a rectangle. “A hidden door! But for what purpose…”

Khîl is still musing on the door, stubbornly unopened, when Authi arrives. “I do not know anyone here,” he says defensively at your look. “I thought I might see what you were getting into. What is this?”

It still takes the three of you the better part of two hours to find the mechanism that reveals the runes on the wall, and another hour and a half of Khîl naming every father, uncle, and cousin of his family for three generations.

“What about your mother?” Authi offers.

“Zéma would never have had anything to do with hidden levers and secret doors,” Khîl says, nearly offended. Still, he tries her name and those of several other dwarrowdams of his house, but still the door stands closed.

“How long has this been your family’s home?” you ask. Khîl considers.

“More than a thousand years. Farther back you think?” These names don’t come as easily, but at long last Khîl lands upon the right one. At Vóin’s name the door slides open.

Khîl and Authi keep their distance from the Black Book of Mordor and the Eye that glares from its cover, but you go closer. You were not in Mordor terribly long, but it was enough to become accustomed to the feel of things long corrupted. You feel none of that now from this book.

You can’t read it, and that fact annoys you far more than it should. There are long stretches of blank pages and senseless doodles in the margins, and the rest is either the dwarvish runes used by the Zhélruka or a form of the Black Speech, well beyond your limited familiarity with the language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> est thinks authi and khîl are hilarious until she actually has to deal with them lmao


	4. of things hidden

The lord of the Ironfort is not pleased by the discovery, but Khîl has no answers that will satisfy him. After a few more days you are set to return to Erebor with the book, intending to show it to Gandalf. Authi goes with you, and Durin, son of Thorin III Stonehelm after a raven arrives from the Lonely Mountain summoning him home. Khîl bids you all farewell and returns to the ordering of his father’s house.

This journey is far quieter than that to Járnfast had been. Durin knows many things, but thousand-year-old Zhélruka writing is not among them, to your disappointment. Perhaps you should have asked Khîl more about the writing before you left.

You find a band of Zhélruka along the road, but they do not seem interested in translating for you. Durin sends you racing back to Erebor after the missing messenger, but it seems he never arrived. A bad feeling settles over you. You turn the book over to Gandalf, who at least seems capable of reading some of it, and race back to Durin. You find only Authi, making his way back to the Hall Under the Mountain.

“Bótuz and his people decided to cross the Dale lands anyway, and Durin went after them,” he tells you shortly, hardly even pausing. “He sent me back to tell his father.” You curse and go haring after Durin towards the Ered Mithrin.

You catch up to the prince of Erebor staring up into the mountains, contemplating the peaks.

“Were you sent here by my father to bring me home?”

“I came here to ensure you were not dead and your father would not consider it my responsibility,” you grumble. Durin smiles and leads you to his camp for the night.

“Have you ever seen the Anvil of Winterstith?” he asks.

“I am not sure I have ever been this far north,” you say. Parts of Angmar might be level with the Grey Mountains, or Forochel, but you are not sure. You go to see the Anvil with Durin and he talks about history. He knows a great deal, and his study of maps of the region is actually quite helpful and he guides you with surprising accuracy. For all he is a dwarf prince, stealing past the lesser drakes that still infest the Anvil, you think he wouldn’t be out of place among rangers and scouts, and you think with a pang of your friends still in the south. 

Bótuz Frostblood and those that follow him have set up their camp in what remains of Skarháld and they are not terribly eager to entertain you and your Longbeard friend. They don’t try to force you out of the fortress entirely, though, and when you look closer you find a handful of other Longbeards of Erebor here. Durin deals patiently enough with the tasks Bótuz sets him, but before his patience can truly be tested, a wounded scout returns from the wilds. You push your way through the crowd until you can see if you might do some good.

“The Weeping Warrior,” Vútro spits out. “He gave me a message for Bótuz.” He curses as the worst of his injuries fade. You cannot undo all the damage, though, and you fear he will still feel the effects of Karazgar’s handiwork despite your efforts. He thanks you anyway.

Bótuz takes you with him on his quest to hunt down Karazgar. He lets you have your say on the Gúrzyul and the Weeping Warrior, but he sets forth without seeming to care. He stands in the overgrown ruins of the old dwarf kingdom and shouts his challenge. The wind is his only answer and you stand there watching until you think you hear a laugh and the breeze carries a mist of reddish dust past your face. You turn and there he stands, head and shoulders taller than you and well more than that above the dwarves. He delivers his claim on the mountains as casually as you might hand someone a piece of fruit. Bótuz laughs and rejects it out of hand, of course, and Karazgar regards him behind the impassive, rust-stained mask. For all his face is entirely covered but for his eyes, you can practically feel his disdain for the Zhélruka. He swears his oaths of destruction, and then he turns his gaze upon you.

Most of his gear is leather over fabric, but he bears one iron vambrace, pocked with rust. He brushes his other hand over the iron and another cloud of dust drifts towards you. “I am disappointed that you never followed my trail,” he says, just this side of mocking. “I would have preferred to meet you earlier than now. You are, by all accounts, quite formidable. I wonder…” he studies you. What he is looking for you cannot say. “I am no longer chained as I once was and I will take what I want. Consider this.” And then he is gone. Bótuz’s people will not find him- he is too experienced and too skilled.

“What did he mean with his talk of chains and trails?” Bótuz demands. His war party spreads behind him, not overtly threatening but not terribly subtle either.

“I have apparently been closer to finding him than I realized,” you say. Annoyed, you continue. “I might have saved a great deal of time following the rust in Lake-town. As to what he wants from me, I have as little clue as you.” Threats perhaps, or perhaps he thinks you receptive to alliance. It matters little now that he has vanished once again, but the question returns to your mind as you follow Bótuz back to Skarháld. You came north to find the Weeping Warrior and here he is. And for the first time you have some idea where he will be. The dwarves will not abandon Skarháld for a threat- though they are not so foolish as to not prepare. You could seek Karazgar out yourself, you suppose, and ask him yourself what he meant, but that verges on foolhardy even for you- and you do not want to leave the defenders of Skarháld to face Karazgar’s wrath alone should you not find him first. 

You never have liked the cold, and your aversion has only gotten worse since the first of your encounters with the Nazgûl. They may be gone now, but still it lingers and the wrath of the Frost-horde sinks deep into your bones. The first of the promised assaults is bad enough, but the raid on the Anvil is a nightmare of a chill so deep it aches and the roars that reverberate against the frozen walls. Kings long dead seeking Thafar-gathol watch you. Illusion or true shades? It does not matter. Is Véthug Wintermind fearsome enough to be counted a true dragon or is he among Hrímil Frostheart’s lesser spawn? Your companions debate it but it does not matter. Karazgar is here but the Herald of Winter tosses him aside like so much trash and you almost think that does not matter either. You are so, so cold. You can barely hold your runestones. You... probably should not have come on this expedition into the heart of a glacier kept by frost-drakes.

Gandalf comes to Skarháld with a party of Longbeards. Durin is promptly surrounded by his own people and he waves to you with a grin, an axe held proudly over his head for your benefit. You laugh and wave back and Gandalf tows you away, shivering still, to tell you what he has learned from the black-bound book.

The room he has taken for his use in Skarháld is much warmer than it ought to be, and the cold that has gripped you eases more quickly than it should. As soon as you are settled Gandalf begins to speak, airing his own theories and comments in between what bits of fact he has been able to pry from the pages. There are layers and layers of obscurement- different scripts and languages and ciphers upon already convoluted language. One name Gandalf has pulled from the mess- Magoldir, an elf of the Last Alliance- to go with Vóin. Seeking the Citadel. Not so different from the dwarves here in Skarháld now.

The discussion gives you some ideas of your own for approaching the book as a linguistic puzzle, not unlike those Celion had given you when you had first begun your studies. Before you can make any serious attempt, though, Karazgar returns to Skarháld.

He is beaten and bloody but he seems to your eye more dangerous than ever. He has lost control of the Frost-horde since the Anvil and it seems now that Hrímil wants him dead, but he has never needed an army to be dangerous.

You do not understand his desire for the book. Sentiment? He seems to hold little enough love for his dearly departed lord. What other secrets does it hold? You know you have barely scratched the surface of it. Whatever it is he wants, Gandalf’s patience runs out first and the Weeping Warrior flees, not even stopping for his mask.

It is time to go. You would think so even without Gandalf’s insistence. Durin will be as safe as he may be with the latest contingent from Erebor and they do at least seem to be working more smoothly with the Zhélruka now. Karazgar is still a problem, but if he desires this book even half as much as he seems to, enough to abandon his claims and threats against the dwarf-holds entirely, then there is a good chance that leaving with the book in hand will be enough to draw him away. Perhaps even enough to trap him.

Gandalf seems downright mischievous as he plots your stay at the Beorninghús. You do not understand it until you meet Grimbeorn for yourself. He can rival Gandalf on even his grumpiest days. You work at the puzzle of Vóin’s book in between errands for Grimbeorn throughout the valleys along the Great River. It’s slow going, but it is also fun in its own way. You have not had a challenge quite like this in a very long time. You study the passage wherein Vóin describes meeting Magoldir and some number of others. You think you isolate four or five names or codes-for-names, but you make no more progress than that. You leave it for a time and walk, your thoughts wandering. 

It is then that Karazgar finds you. He does not threaten you. In fact, he is nearly friendly. He still wants the book, but you do not have it and you do not believe the reasons he gives for his desire. He had wanted it too desperately back in Skarháld for you to think it is truly no more than a trophy. Tempting as it may be, you know you cannot take him alone like this. You do not think he believes you when you say you will bring it to him, but what matters is that he leaves you in peace. You take a deep breath and return to a much more crowded Beorninghús.

There is entirely too much happening within the bounds of Grimbeorn’s home and you spend far more of the next few days in Hultvís than at the Beorninghús. Your wanderings take you back to the Gladden Fields, where you find a lost hunter and send him on his way home, though you yourself are drawn farther in. 

You speak with Gandalf, briefly, but soon enough you are back in the swamps, searching for perhaps one shade or perhaps several. The Woodmen in Hultvís told you the story of Vagári the Wanderer, but they did not all agree. 

You find one shade, shrouded with a near-physical wreath of fear. “Son-of-no-blood, son-of-no-blood,” he repeats, hardly seeming to see you. Even standing several feet away, you are awash in hate and rage and a horrible sadness without relief. 

Just before he fades, he _looks_ at you. “Nengwin?”

Whoever Nengwin is, you are not them, nor have you ever heard the name before. The shade, who is likely the one the Woodmen have named Vagári, is gone, but there is something else here now. You pursue it, and eventually Gultháva allows you into her sanctum. Another shade lies within, and something in this one is familiar. You study his face and something there reminds you of the Dúnedain, of Aragorn and Halbarad in particular. You try to speak to him, but it is almost as if you are trying to have a conversation with a sleep-talker. 

The river-maiden screams and you run, preparing to fight, but you find only Gandalf, with Elrond and Glorfindel following behind.

“Hello there,” Gandalf says pleasantly enough to you. You stare at him and at the elf-lords. They forced their way through Gultháva’s protections after she parted them enough to let you through. You were bait, then. You hide neither your anger nor your irritation, but the Wise are far too busy forcing the maiden of the Gladden to give up her charge that she has protected for centuries to notice you. Misguided though her attempt to keep a mortal man in enchanted sleep may have been, she has kept Isildur safe from Sauron’s reach for all these years. He may never have known true rest, but if he lingered as a shade to begin with, he would not have even outside Gultháva’s grotto.

As he remembers, he flees. Elrond and Glorfindel hurry after him. Gultháva glares at you. “So be it, then. My wards are broken. His peace now lies upon you.” Something like a veil of mist falls across your face. “If you fail, you will know my wrath.” And you _know_ that this charge now is bound to you, through no oath of your own but the power of the spirit of the Gladden. As if you didn’t have enough unfinished business.

You hardly speak to Gandalf as you pursue the elf-lords and the shade to Tol Send. “Lendelen?” Isildur says. “Nengwin? But no- you are not Nengwin, though you look enough alike.”

“Lendelen?” Gandalf repeats. “I have heard that name only once before.” Glorfindel looks at him sharply. “From another shade in this swamp, in fact, though it was many years ago now.”

It takes days on that island, listening and questioning and waiting for Gultháva’s enchantments to drift away. You learn some few things of Magoldir, but nothing that explains his prominence in the book. 

You never thought to see an elf such as Glorfindel panicked, but as the tales roll on he grows ever more restless until at last you come to the story of the Bright Company and their last mission into Barad-dûr. Isildur does not know the details- only that the Oath-stone was broken and the army it compelled splintered. Glorfindel looks at Gandalf with such sorrow and you cannot fathom why. And then he begins to speak.

The story is not a pleasant one, and you are not the one uncovering a life of hidden memories. It at least explains why the shades keep calling him Lendelen.

You leave Gandalf and Glorfindel to talk and sit in a patch of sunlight out of easy earshot and work at the section of Vóin’s book you have been studying. Elrond joins you after a time, leaving Gandalf and Glorfindel as much privacy as you can. Even without his library full of references Elrond is a great help. There are for certain five names in addition to Magoldir’s, one even more obscured than the rest. You at last untangle the first four, and your heart sinks farther with each. You last heard most of them in the wake of the Pelennor, and before that in the old archives in Minas Tirith. Macilnis, Orolang, Silmahtar, Calatúr. You do not know the methods Vóin used to conceal the final name, but you know what it must be.

You slam the cover shut and nearly throw the book into the Gladden. It is all connected, then. Between this and Isildur’s only hint as to the resting place of his bones, it seems your road leads you now to Minas Morgul. You spend some time cursing at and about Gothmog-Mordirith-Eärnur, and in your head you add a few with slightly less feeling for Gultháva for setting her charge on you alone, and not on the esteemed Wise who followed you. You pause when you notice the silence around you. You appear to have impressed even Isildur with your foul language.

“I take it you learned something useful from the book, then,” Gandalf says mildly.

By the next day you have passed the continuing problem of the book- and Karazgar- over to Gandalf and have supplied yourself from trade with the Woodmen. Gandalf is off-balance enough still that he has little more to say than an admonition to take care. You bid the elf-lords and the shade of Isildur farewell and ride south, skirting Lothlórien and making for Mordor one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys could at least have given me some warning you were about to barge into the river-maiden's living room. seriously 
> 
> karazgar is also an altogether less impressive nemesis when gothmog/mordirith is Right There, still
> 
> fun fact: i was Convinced karazgar was magoldir for awhile, til it became a bit clearer that the gurzyul were humans first, not elves


	5. a library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the halls of black lore are creepy enough...

The twice-devastated Dagorlad lies beyond the hills and you almost ride straight for Mordor without thinking. It has been nearly two months though- much may have changed. You stop first in Minas Tirith then for news. Ayorzén is, to your surprise, still in the city. He may not have many other options, you suppose, but you are surprised all the same. He has a surprising amount of news, too, though much of it is city gossip and not terribly relevant to your mission. When you finally do satisfy your curiosity, you make for the Morgul Vale by way of the Fennas Gost, not far from Cirith Ungol. 

Echad Uial is well hidden and, once a sentry recognizes you and relaxes, as safe as any place in the Witch-king’s domain can reasonably be. Lakewind snorts at you when you finally stop, good-natured but pointed. You pat his neck fondly and unload what you can from his back. He watches you suspiciously when you do not relieve him entirely of gear. "I don't know how long we will be here," you say apologetically. The news in Minas Tirith had not been enough to plan quite that far. 

Someone calls your name behind you. Corunir. A grin splits your face, and on its heels comes doubt. You have been gone for two months- but Corunir is already hugging you and smiling and pulling you deeper into the camp. If he resents you for leaving with so little word you cannot find a sign of it- though he does unsaddle Lakewind himself and insist that you can leave your bags over here until you find a more permanent space and generally act as if, having returned, you will of course be staying, because what else would you be doing? He talks about events in Gorgoroth and about things beginning here in the valley, an expedition almost entirely filled with rangers under Prince Faramir. In fact, you hardly get a word in edgewise as you are steered to a fire already half-surrounded by friends, none of whom are expecting you.

“I thought you were going to find a map,” Golodir says dryly to Corunir.

“I found something better.”

Whatever else has been happening here in the Morgul Vale, tonight it is peaceful and everyone seems at ease, and they bombard you with questions of where exactly you have been.

“All Gandalf said was that he had asked you to go north with as much haste as could be managed,” Rhadrog says. “He would say no more than that. He insisted we had enough to worry about here.”

“And then Corunir yelled at him,” Brungos adds. Corunir mutters something into his meal, face red, and the others laugh. “He left not long after that.”

“What were you doing?”

There are far too many of them at this fire, sitting on the ground and empty crates and fallen logs and Amlan even laid out across a large, flat rock. You answer their questions as best you can, but you never get more than halfway through an answer before you have another half-dozen questions.

“Dol Guldur? What did you find there?”

“Gem-cutter? Like the ones that made our rings?” This said while touching the spot where a Bebarahir might have sat.

“The Iron Hills?”

“What is Thafar-gathol?”

“You fought _dragons_?”

“I am not entirely sure if Véthug was a dragon, technically,” you say to that one. “And Hrímil we only just escaped from.” You shiver at the memory of the cold. 

“How did the north fare in the war?”

“What was in the book?” 

“The wedding party is on their way south? Good!”

“ _Isildur_?”

“Why are you back now?”

On that one at last you pause, and the rest of them fall silent. You sigh. This is the lightest you have felt since… probably since sharing drinks with Authi and Khîl before the return to Erebor with Durin. You have thus far managed to avoid talking about Vóin’s book or its secrets beyond a mention, but you know as soon as you do this will end.

“Is coming back to help you not enough?” You say it lightly, but they know you well enough to know that there is more to it than that. “Gandalf has taken over dealing with Karazgar. My task is to find whatever remains of Isildur.”

“And that is what brings you to the Morgul Vale?” Dagoras presses.

“Isildur described what he could see of where his bones lie. Our best guess is that they are in the heights of Barad Cúron.” Silence.

“That is in the very middle of Minas Morgul.”

“I know.”

“...that is where Gothmog is.”

You shoot a look at Golodir and hope he reads the apology in it. “I know.”

“I hope you are not planning to try to get there anytime soon. Especially not alone.”

“That would be incredibly foolish,” you say evenly.

“That is not a no,” Corunir mutters beside you, mouth thin. You press your shoulder to his.

“I will not try it alone, I swear.”

The conversation tries to turn to lighter things again, but the damage is done and the quiet stretches are too long. Eventually Golodir leans back to watch the stars.

“Dagoras, do you remember the stories Merilnim used to tell when we would stay with her? There was one about a group of knights who were held prisoner in a haunted city.”

“The one with the cursed sword.” Dagoras nods along. “I never did like that one.”

“The ending was always unpleasant,” Golodir agrees. “But there was a dwarf in that one. Wasn’t his name Vóin?”

Dagoras cocks his head. “I think it was. What of it?”

Golodir shrugs. “The name was familiar, is all.” The subject drops and soon enough everyone begins drifting away to their bedrolls.

Faeron is among the last to go. “Are we really trusting shades now? It has not ended well for us in the past.” You wince.

“This one perhaps we can believe. But if it eases your mind, this was a task given to me by the river-maiden, not the shade.” Faeron considers this.

“I am not sure it does. Goodnight.” You snort a laugh and bid him goodnight.

At last it is only you and Corunir. The fire is all but dead and the camp is nearly silent. Corunir yawns, wide, and you cannot help a fond smile.

“You are not about to let me go off alone anytime soon, are you?” you ask quietly.

“Not if you are going to run off to the other side of the world again,” he says grumpily. You laugh without much humor. “Especially if you are planning to fight dragons.” You mutter about technicalities again and he snorts a laugh.

“I am sorry,” you say. You are one friend and were gone only for a couple of months, but still you know it bothers him more than he will admit. 

“Gandalf never did mention that he got yelled at,” you say after several moments. You can feel his laugh. “What did you say to him?”

“Something about sending one person after any of the Gúrzyul without support and the wisdom or lack thereof in such a decision. Perhaps one or two comments on other things.” You try to picture the scene and nearly keel over laughing. No wonder Gandalf never said anything.

The journey south was long and it is good to be among friends again.

Faramir and his rangers prepare to press into Minas Morgul and you help wherever you may. You see Annoth again and spend some time talking, but he catches word of Ugrukhôr near Cirith Ungol and runs off before you can say anything to stop him. You tell Dagoras and think he goes after Annoth, but you can do little else. The White Company has found an entrance to the city that is not guarded by trolls and the long climb up is beginning tonight. 

Barad Angarth is the first foothold you establish and the least well-defended, situated as it is in the middle of the battle between Ugrukhôr and Mordirith’s armies. It is still a hard fight. You know it will only get harder from here.

From the Star-gazers’ Spire you look out across Minas Morgul. It could be quite pleasant, you think, if you ignore the Dead and the merrevail and weird, otherworldly sheen of the stones. It is not unlike Minas Tirith in design. More artistically inclined, perhaps, but from what you understand that had always been the nature of Minas Ithil. 

You are drawing ever closer to the Citadel of Night and despite the progress, faster than many had hoped, you are growing ever more impatient. You can still feel Gultháva’s charge, like mist against your face, and you want it gone. It is not that you do not want to help Isildur’s shade find peace- you would have helped for no more than the asking. There had been no choice in this, though, and that rankles you.

So, too, do you want Mordirith to be done with. He is here, and he has taken up residence in the heart of the city, and his presence hangs over you like a cloud. He will need to be dealt with because he is a lingering problem and also for your own mission. You hardly think he will allow you to search the tower for a casket of bone if you simply ask nicely enough.

Faeron and Rhadrog have more or less taken command of the Circle of Madness. The eerie light of Minas Morgul plays strangely on the transplanted flora you recognize from Agarnaith and on the mushrooms that Rhadrog stomps with vindictive pleasure. You are not entirely sure all of those mushrooms are of the exploding type, but it seems to make Rhadrog feel better at least. 

Mithrendan returns from scouting the far reaches of the circle one night, pale and shaky. When he is somewhat steadier he speaks of the old archives of the city, once filled with the lore of Númenor but now filled with that of the Enemy and stalked by echoes of the past. Mithrendan tries to warn you all away from it, but he cannot win against curiosity and the possibility of learning something useful.

Faeron is the first to volunteer to investigate. Rhadrog is quick to go with him, as is Dolenthol, who you are not terribly familiar with, though you did work together in the Circle of Wrath to great effect. You go, too, because it is a library and your curiosity has not gotten you into enough trouble of late. 

The apparitions start almost immediately. They are small things, at first, the flash of a cloak or the echo of a familiar laugh. They are easy enough to ignore. The doors to the archive slam open and you hide yourselves as Lhaereth strides in and begins making demands of the keeper of the archives. You crouch behind a pillar with Rhadrog and listen, all but holding your breath in the hopes that Lhaereth and the Archivist both will miss you.

Something drips behind you and you turn. Candaith stands not three feet from you. His skin is too grey to be healthy but he looks otherwise hale- and the drip comes again and it is blood dripping from somewhere unseen and pooling at his feet. You recoil violently and knock shoulders with Rhadrog, who squeezes your hand tightly and pointedly does not look at the empty space to his left. You close your eyes and press your forehead to the cool stone of the pillar and try to focus on the conversation, but the drip is distracting and you _remember_ the long slash down his back that should have killed him- because he is not here and he is not dead and Radanir told you that and you believe him even if you have not yet seen Candaith for yourself.

There are noises from farther in, deeper in the halls. Rhadrog’s head turns.

“Was that..?”

Lhaereth and Dolguzigir take notice, too, and they run after the noise. Faeron appears beside you, eyes too wide to be entirely himself. “We have to go.” He starts herding you and Rhadrog towards the doors.

“Was that Viznak?” Rhadrog demands, holding his ground.

“We have to go,” Faeron repeats, almost pleading.

“If it is Viznak, we can’t just leave him here,” Rhadrog protests. Faeron pushes harder and Dolenthol appears from the other direction and starts urging you out as well.

You make it to a cross-road held by a pair of merrevail. Lhaereth’s guards, most likely. If you time it just right, you should be able to avoid their notice. Dolenthol goes first and nearly trips on a loose stone, but in the end makes it. Rhadrog goes next, and then you.

“Keep going,” Faeron murmurs in your ear. “I am right behind you.”

You cross the open space uncontested and follow a narrow, twisting alley until you find Rhadrog and Dolenthol again. You stop, breathing hard, and wait for Faeron. You keep waiting until well after he should have caught up, all three of you more and more uneasy until at last morroval screams pierce the air, coming from the cross-road. You run, hoping it is not Faeron but knowing it probably is.

It is, of course. Faeron fends off the two guards one-handed, something small bundled tight against his chest. The two he can nearly manage, but more dark shapes are descending from above. One swoops low, stinger-tail swinging, and you knock her from the sky with lightning. The others turn on you and Faeron takes the opening to stab one and run for the alley mouth. You retreat with him and Rhadrog takes up position beside you.

Faeron stops far too soon, lowering his burden gently in the shadow of a building and calling for you.

“I am a little busy here,” you call back, invoking yet another bolt of lightning.

“He needs help.” There is a panic in Faeron’s voice that you have not often heard, but right now it really is all you can do to keep the merrevail at bay.

“Let me,” Dolenthol says, pushing Faeron back.

The merrevail keep coming, some of them coming far too close despite your best efforts, and Rhadrog and Faeron deal with them until Dolenthol announces that Viznak is as stable as can be managed here. Faeron picks him up again and leads the retreat back to the tower. It is a good thing Lhaereth’s forces already know you control Barad Elenath, you think grimly. It was from them you had taken it in the first place.

You crash through the door and slam it behind you, waiting for the sound of impacts against the heavy wood that never comes. Perhaps for now they are content to wait and watch. You lean against the wall and try to catch your breath as the others slump beside you.

“Will someone please explain,” Dolenthol gasps, “why we just risked all our lives to save a goblin.” Faeron stands protectively over Viznak, who seems aware enough now, if pained. You go to him to see what you can do.

“He saved our lives first in the archives,” Faeron says firmly. “And in Agarnaith before that.” He is ready to argue and, if necessary, to fight, though you do not think it will come to that. You hope it will not.

Viznak stirs and leans around Faeron’s legs. “Can’t let my bodyguards get hurt, can I?” He looks up at Dolenthol. “Thanks for helping me, lady.” Dolenthol freezes. “D’you want to be one of my bodyguards too?”

“Uh, Viznak?” Rhadrog starts. You watch Dolenthol. Not particularly close with any of the Ithilien rangers that you have seen, and certainly not one of the Grey Company. And the voice… Understanding dawns. You should have seen it earlier.

“Really? Again?”

Éowyn pulls down her mask and grimaces. “After all this, it is a too-clever goblin.” She shushes Rhadrog and Faeron as they start to talk over each other. “No, Faramir does not know I am here, and no, I do not intend to tell him.” Footsteps approach as others in the tower come to investigate your noisy entry. “Dolenthol” returns and goes to meet them. You trade glances with Faeron and Rhadrog. You did not exactly plan this. You had little choice but to retreat to the tower, but Corunir and Golodir, the only others you might rely on to not immediately attack Viznak, are at Barad Arthir. Whatever Éowyn says to the others, it seems to put them at ease, and they do no more than wave your direction to welcome you back. She returns to you and sits down across from Viznak. Eventually Faeron and Rhadrog follow suit, though Faeron keeps a watchful eye towards the rest of the tower.

“Well then, have any of you thought about what comes next?”

Near everyone else would attack Viznak on sight, never even stopping to question it. Viznak knows this better than any of you. Between your work and Éowyn’s, he can move about without much pain, but he should rest for a day at least before trying anything as ambitious as saving all of his friends from their own decisions again.

The final result is not the greatest of plans, but Viznak manages to hide in an out-of-the-way corner of Barad Elenath for the rest of the day and sneak out a lower door the next. So long as he stays out of sight of the merrevail he should be fine, but you worry for him anyway. You send him off with a box of spices Vútro had given you before you left Skarháld and he shoves it gleefully in a pocket. You see him safely away, and then you turn on Faeron.

“What was that?” you demand.

“What was what?” He looks terribly confused- which may be fair, as it has been a day and a half by now.

“‘I am right behind you’ generally means you will be right behind me, not running off on a rescue mission alone.”

“Ah-” he starts, realizing.

“Did you think we would not go with you? That we would get in the way?”

“It wasn’t that,” he says quietly. You cross your arms and wait. “None of us saw anything good in that library.”

“We were well out of it by then.”

“And thus perfectly fine,” he says dryly. He shakes his head. “Rhadrog was right about not leaving Viznak, but all I wanted was to get out of there. I could think more clearly once we were outside, though.”

“And you decided not to say anything to the rest of us?”

The look Faeron gives you is heavy with sympathy. “I do not know what you saw in there, but I have never seen that look on your face before. I barely made myself go back in.” You would have gone with him anyway. His face says he knows it. Rhadrog and Éowyn would have gone too, unless you are very wrong in your measure of them.

You sigh deeply and put a hand on Faeron’s shoulder. “Do you think you could at least give us a little warning next time?” He smiles.

“I will make no promises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> faeron what the Fuck man. you couldn't have given any of us a hint before running off alone


	6. eärnur

You have advanced up through the city as far as the towers can reasonably take you. Culang reports another watch-stone guarding the entrance to Barad Cúron, one that will admit only the Gúrzyul on Mordirith’s orders. You are part of the next rotation back to the camp at Echad Uial for supplies and are mulling over any possible way to force your entry to the Tower of the Crescent Moon when you nearly walk into Gandalf, arrived at the camp some time during your adventures in the city.

“Ah! There you are. I was just starting to wonder if I would have to come into the city myself to find you.” Before you can object or ask anything of your own, you are sat down at a camp table across from Gandalf, Vóin’s book open between you as Gandalf tells you all he has learned since you left him on Tol Send. You would be lying if you said you were disinterested, but there are a thousand other things on your mind and a confrontation with Mordirith is so close you can feel it. You just need a way past the watch-stone…

“Are you listening at all?” Gandalf asks peevishly, jarring you from your thoughts. “A Wizard’s time is valuable, and if you do not want to hear this there are a number of other things I could be doing.”

As if you have nothing else to be doing with your own time. “Do you know how to force your way past the spirit of a watching stone?”

The answer is yes, he knows how, and might be capable of doing so himself, though it would draw far more attention than you would like if he did. Placating the spirit however you can is his advice- a Gúrzyul it wants, and a Gúrzyul it should have. Gandalf passes over the mask of Karazgar, chill as night-cooled steel, and suggests deception. 

“You really think this will work,” you say skeptically.

“There is, in fact, every chance it will not,” he says. “The spirit might have known Karazgar in this life or the last, or it might decide to bar your way even if it believes you, or it might pass word directly to Gothmog and ruin the entire play.”

“Encouraging,” you mutter.

And just like that, you have a way in. Your breath catches as it suddenly becomes far more immediate. You ran from Mordirith in Osgiliath- or, more precisely, Derufin and Duilin dragged you away- and before that you were witness to his not-quite-death at Narmeleth’s hands in Angmar. There will not be another meeting after this one.

Gandalf suggests Ayorzén as your fake Karazgar, but unless the Wizard intends to go all the way back to Minas Tirith to retrieve him, you will find another, or play the role yourself. You return to Minas Morgul with supplies for Barad Arthir and think far too much the whole way up.

You will have to ask for help. For one, you promised Corunir you would not try this fight alone. For another, there is no way you would be able to defeat Mordirith alone. Who then to ask? Golodir is the first you would offer the chance to- and you would not want him to go for all the same reasons. This fight will hurt no matter what, and him more so than most. More than most, too, he deserves to see this finished, but you are terrified, quietly, that Golodir will let himself be killed- or worse, try for it- to ensure Mordirith’s final defeat.

Corunir, too, you would tell. Nearly everyone else who was part of the war for Angmar is dead or well out of reach. You know the watch-stone will bring back all the loneliness and despair of his years in Aughaire, but you know too that he would never forgive you if you tried to leave him behind.

You know them both, and you know they will both go with you. That knowledge _hurts_ , because you know that it will cause them both nothing but pain.

Who else? Even the three of you, with one playing the part of Karazgar, may be pushing the limits of what will work. Faeron or Rhadrog? Culang? Short of waiting for Ayorzén, your choices are rangers from the north or rangers from the south. You sigh into your hands and finish organizing the supplies you have brought, and then you go in search of Corunir.

He is silent for a long time after you tell him your plan. “Have you told Golodir yet?” You shake your head. More silence. “When do we start?” You take a deep breath.

“As soon as we are ready.” Corunir nods, eyes distant, and you pull him into a gentle hug. “Thank you.” Corunir laughs faintly, his breath barely stirring your hair.

“You didn't think I was going to let you go alone, did you?”

You smile to yourself. “Never.”

Golodir listens in silence. “I am going,” he says as soon as you are finished. Something clenches tight inside you.

“No.” It is not quite anger that crosses his face, but it is close.

“You think you are going to stop me?”

“I will,” you threaten. “I will tie you down and set Faeron and Rhadrog to watch you if I have to.” And you mean it, more than you have meant nearly anything in your life. “You must promise me something first.”

Golodir’s face is impassive. “What?”

“Promise me that you will try to survive this.” Your voice cracks. “No seeking out a fight like the Pelennor. Not again.” He looks away. Perhaps it is wrong of you to demand this of him, but you find it hard to care and harder still to face the possibility of losing him like that again.

At last Golodir takes your hand and holds your gaze. “I promise I will not seek out my own death… even if it means Mordirith endures. I swear it, Esterín.” You attempt a smile and seize him in a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “And I’m _sorry_.”

In the end, Culang is the only one you add to your number. Five you think would be too much, and neither Faeron nor Rhadrog would let the other go without him. You hand Culang the mask and take up a position beside Golodir. Even if they see through your deception, perhaps the two of you will be incentive enough for Mordirith to admit you to the tower.

You stand before the watch-stone as Culang coldly makes his claim. You coached him as best you could on Karazgar’s mannerisms and he is near enough the Gúrzyul in build, but these things see with more than eyes and the minds of the Deathless you cannot fake.

“Gothmog awaits you,” the spirit of the watch-stone says, its not-voice rumbling in your chest and your skull. “You may pass… Karazgar.” The presence retreats from your mind and the doors to the Tower of the Crescent Moon swing wide.

Culang rips the mask from his face and throws it aside with a shudder as soon as you cross the threshold. “It saw straight through me. He knows.” You expected as much. Still, you made it inside, which is already more to plan than you had hoped for. Culang strings one of the bows strapped across his back like a staff and hands the second to Corunir. You rub the smooth surface of a runestone and take a deep breath to steady yourself, and then you step forward together.

“Ahh, Golodir, I did not expect to see you again,” Mordirith’s voice echoes from the dimness of the tower. Golodir steps into the lead. You brush one hand against Culang’s and one against Corunir’s and immediately you feel the strain of two wards. You had been confident enough when you told them you would be able to protect them both, but this is already a struggle and nothing has really started yet. Mordirith- in the shape of the False King, not Gothmog- appears in the center of the broad, open floor and Golodir stops before him. Culang and Corunir vanish into the shadows at the edge of the room. 

“I must admit, I never expected you to find the strength to leave the north,” Mordirith says. “Tell me, ranger, what forced you out of your caves in the end?” Reluctantly, you step away from Golodir, angling for what had once been a statue of some animal. “Did your allies grow weary of your sorrow? Your anger? Did you grow weary of them?” A blade appears in Mordirith’s hand and comes to a rest against Golodir’s neck. You hold your breath. So much rests on Golodir’s absolute certainty that Mordirith will not kill him here. “Or perhaps some part of you knew, even then, that we were yet bound.” You are not close enough to see Golodir’s face, but you can see how stiffly he holds himself. "But I am not ungrateful- I should thank you for living this long and keeping me from the Void."

An arrow streaks from the darkness and rebounds against the iron crown. From Culang’s side- you would have expected Corunir to start first. Mordirith turns and Corunir’s arrow catches him high in the shoulder. He turns, snarling, and you hit him full force in the armoured chest, knocking him backwards and putting space between him and Golodir.

"Who have you brought to their deaths this time, Golodir?" Louder, he says: "Come into the light, my guests." He raises a hand and flames erupt in the wings. Culang screams, and you feel the thread between you and your ward over Corunir snap. 

And like the ward, the façade of calm you have held thus far snaps. You held fear and anger and everything else at bay with the idea of a plan, but you are here facing Mordirith for what you know will be the last time, and the weight of that reality and of your sudden fear for Corunir crashes in to replace the weight of the second ward. 

It is to be fire, then? You may have the greater talent with lightning, but you know some things of fire, too. Mordirith laughs off the flames you spin around him and you hit him again with lightning, fueled by a year’s worth of struggle and all the strength of your need to end this, that you and your friends and so many others might finally know peace. You abandon the statue behind which you had taken cover and run forward, the air sparking around you.

“You again,” Mordirith says contemptuously. “Have you not tired of failing to defeat me?” You slam a runestone into the chestplate and again the force of it staggers him, but something is off. Mordirith does not react to the physical impact of stone on steel plate as he should. Before you can puzzle through it a hand on your arm drags you backwards as the shape of the False King dissolves before you.

“Illusion,” Golodir spits. Of course. He always has favored them.

The next ones are more obvious, if only because you know them to be dead. They puff into shadows when you strike them and Mordirith’s voice taunts you in the background. Culang joins you and Golodir in the center of the room, scorched and without his bow but looking otherwise whole. There is no sign of Corunir.

At last Mordirith grows bored of throwing the past in your faces and steps forth in truth as Gothmog. Golodir is the first to know for certain that this at last is no illusion, but you recognize this body, this armor, from Osgiliath overrun and _know_ as you did then that this is true.

“Did you think you had won?” Gothmog asks mockingly. “We have not yet begun!” You strike at him together but nothing seems to touch him, blade or bolt. You aim for the space beneath the hood where a head should be and he laughs and brushes you aside and you fall. His sword arcs towards you but Golodir turns it aside and holds position between you and Mordirith until you can recover.

An arrow flies in and this at last strikes true and Mordirith staggers, a hand to his unseen face. You do not see where the arrow went but you can see where it came from. Corunir stands, braced against a pillar, wiping blood from his eyes as he raises his bow again. Mordirith tries to turn on Corunir but the rest of you fall on him and this time your blows land. You push him back and back, Golodir in the lead and hammering at Mordirith with the strength of vengeance and justice long frustrated. 

At last Mordirith falls to the ground and does not rise again. You stand over him with Golodir, watching for some last trick, some final, desperate attack. Waiting, perhaps, for confirmation. He does not seem to be breathing, but you would have to come closer to tell for sure. Does he even breathe as Gothmog? How physical is this body? You glance at Golodir, waiting too. Corunir groans behind you and Culang takes up your watch on Mordirith.

Corunir sits slumped, his bow abandoned and the pillar bearing all of his weight. He can barely focus on you when you kneel beside him and half of his face is caked in blood. There is a pile of scorched rubble nearby, and you think you know how Corunir came by his injuries. The worst of them is a deep cut above his ear. It may not go farther than bone, but the impact alone seems to have been enough to rattle him badly. There is little you can do about that, but you can at least stop the bleeding. He manages a smile for you and tries to stand, but he does not get far before his balance fails him and he nearly falls. You gently sit him back down and he closes his eyes and presses his forehead into your shoulder, breathing steadily.

“How did you manage to get a shot off at all,” you ask softly. He laughs once.

“A great deal of luck. And desperation.”

And isn’t that the great theme of the day?

You are abruptly aware of the sensation of mist on your face and you curse under your breath at Gultháva’s insistent reminders. “I have not forgotten.” Corunir makes a questioning sound and you sigh. “I still have something to find here.” He nods along, but when you make to stand his hand closes around your wrist. His grip is tight but he releases you quickly with a muttered apology. You grip his hand and call Golodir over until he at last leaves Mordirith and joins you, face carefully blank.

“I have to find the bones,” you say quietly. “But I do not think Corunir should be left alone.”

“I can still hear you, you know,” Corunir mutters.

“How long would it have been until you tried to stand up again on your own?” you retort. Corunir mutters something and it gets a hint of a smile out of Golodir, who takes your place by Corunir’s side.

“He hasn’t done anything, but I am not sure if that should be encouraging or not,” Culang says when you stop beside him. You nudge Mordirith with your foot and nothing happens. You want to believe it, but you have thought him dead before. A familiar chill runs over you and you shiver. Culang feels it too- he looks around for some source, suddenly alert.

You see Isildur’s shade near the exit of the room- a throne room, you note at last- gazing upwards. At least it should not be difficult to find what you seek. You leave Culang and climb into the heights of the tower and Isildur floats beside you.

“This is hardly the Minas Ithil of my days,” he says, his voice hissing oddly.

You snort. “It has been a few years.” You sigh, then. Your irritation at Wizards and river-maidens does not truly extend to the long-dead king. “What was it like, before it became Minas Morgul?”

Isildur tells you of the Tower of the Moon in all its glory, of the gardens in the Circle of Wisdom and the music of Lindalírë and the archives his wife Valardis had filled with the learning of Númenor. It is all the worse for being able to match each place to its twisted echo in Minas Morgul. You climb the tower and find the room that holds the beacon that shines even still upon the city, and beneath it the fractured Vandassar. Isildur drifts as if drawn across the room and you follow, your steps the only sound in the heights. You find a casket filled with dust, completely unremarkable to see but unmistakable to Isildur. Now you need only see it brought to Imladris.

Mordirith is, unfortunately, not as dead as he appeared. You return to the throne room and stop when you hear his voice. Isildur looks at you in question but you shake your head and he fades again. You rejoin the others with the casket in hand.

“This place once held a palantír,” Mordirith says as you enter. “Would you like to look into the stone again, Golodir?”

Golodir still sits with Corunir, but he is not so far that he cannot hear Mordirith. Anger flashes in you. Why can this not be over? He is beaten, you have the bones, and now you should be able to leave. But the last king of Gondor lingers still, and has, it seems, no shortage of words for you and yours. He is the first to notice you.

“And what of you, who so loves interfering where you should not?”

You should not engage with him. Nothing good will come of it. He is rather right, though, in that you never can leave well enough alone- and if he is focused on you, then he is not focused on your friends, and you will not discount that.

“What of me?”

“Would you look into the Seeing-stone? Perhaps it might show you the way to lasting victory, or perhaps all the ways your meddling has made things worse. The stones are unpredictable. Who knows what you will see.”

One look was quite enough, though you would be lying if you said you would not be at all tempted, were the opportunity to cross your path again. “I have seen into the Anor-stone.” That earns you a number of looks from the others. You suppose you never did tell them about Denethor’s vision. “I was not impressed.” You are done listening to him. “Tell me, do you remember Vóin?”

If nothing else, it confuses him. “What?”

You tell the story then, of Vóin who met a band of adventurers in the mountains and befriended them- of Magoldir and of four knights and of their prince, who they followed into battle again and again. Once you start it is difficult to stop and no one interrupts you, not even Mordirith. If anything rises from Eärnur’s memories, though, there is no sign of it.

You have just come to the passage Gandalf had tried to tell you about in Echad Uial, of the doomed mission to Durthang, when the door to the tower swings wide. You turn to face whatever it may admit.

The Captain of the Pit has come. Annoth is his prisoner. He cries still for vengeance for the Thandrim and you have little doubt as to how he came to be in this position. Ugrukhôr wants Gothmog. He is too late. 

“Karazgar, then. He was seen entering the tower. Tell me where he has gone.”

You cannot think fast enough. Ugrukhôr is not here alone and you and Culang would be beaten well before Golodir could make it to you, and Corunir can barely stand, much less fight. Karazgar is anywhere but here but his mask is on the floor in the corner and neither of those facts help you right now.

“Speak, or the ranger dies.” You try to trip out a lie but Ugrukhôr does not actually care for the answer. He only wants to see your faces as Annoth falls bleeding anyway. He orders his underlings into the tower and you are forced back, away from Annoth and you _know_ you will never be able to force your way closer in time.

You are taken as ‘escort’ back up into the tower while the others are surrounded by two or three guards apiece below. Hostages against each others’ good behavior you think, though Ugrukhôr’s treatment of Annoth and of the Thandrim before him throws doubt on any promises he might make, even if you were inclined to believe him to begin with.

You are far enough up, now. Any noise from the throne room is nothing more than a vague rumble. You take your chance. No one comes running up after you as your guards fall and you sneak back down as quietly as you can.

You have barely crossed the threshold, crouched low, when Culang moves. He takes down the two on either side of him, but there is a third behind and Ugrukhôr too near him besides. Golodir and Corunir move only a moment behind and you leap into the room as the ward, thin but still present, snaps over Culang. Culang is down but so is his third guard and Ugrukhôr is turning his attention on the others and after everything else today, you _will not_ let any more harm come to your friends. Not after they came here at all because you asked it of them.

Lightning catches his attention and soon enough you are closed with the Captain of the Pit. He throws you across the room without any effort and if you were not quite so focused on fighting him you might be embarrassed. As it is, he advances on you, laughing- and pays no heed to Gothmog, still on the ground. It proves his undoing, but he manages one final blow at his killer as he goes.

The room falls silent. Corunir and Golodir are both on their feet, though Corunir staggers in place. Culang is curled around himself and you run to him.

“I’m fine,” he gasps out, and indeed you see no fresh blood. “Annoth…”

You run to Annoth. He is not dead yet, but he is fading, and you reach for him and for the runes but you are too slow, too slow. He is slipping from your grasp. _No_. You reach anyway, and you catch on something, and you reel it back, and Annoth slowly opens his eyes.

You sit back on your heels. The rush of battle fades and you begin to notice your own hurts. Your friends call to you and slowly you go to them. Corunir is sitting again, a hand to his head, but Golodir and Culang are standing and watching Mordirith’s last gasps. He holds a key close to his chest and speaks words you must bend close to hear.

“Vóin. It was Vóin who gave me the key. And I did not recognize him…”

You watch in silence until he goes silent himself and a broken key falls from dead hands.

A heartbeat passes.

Golodir sits heavily beside Corunir with too-fast breaths and slowly bends double, head to his knees. _No!_ You drop beside him and take him gently by the shoulders and try to see his face, but he resists your efforts. _No, if the link is real it should pull Mordirith back, not pull Golodir away_. Corunir’s hands join yours. _Please_.

You know words of ending, of finality, of interruption, and you speak them now with all the strength you can put behind them. One of them must be able to do something, anything. After _everything_ this cannot be how it ends. Culang kneels and lays a hand on Golodir’s back. Do the words do anything? You cannot say.

Hands take yours, and Corunir’s, and bring them close to Golodir’s chest. “It’s alright,” he says, and you can hear tears in his voice to match those on your face. “I am fine.”

“It’s over. He is gone.”

The relief that sweeps you would have brought you to your knees if you were standing. _It’s done, it’s done, and we are free of him_! As it is, you have to lean against Golodir to keep yourself at all upright, and you reach out a free hand in the direction of Culang to pull him in, the other still held with Corunir’s. _You thought him dead before_ , a distrusting voice whispers but you ignore it. If Golodir is so convinced, you will allow yourself to be, too.


	7. an epilogue of sorts

You don’t know how long you stay there in Barad Cúron, but eventually you make it back to Barad Arthir with the broken key and the casket and Annoth, who is alive but only just. The air in the occupied towers is oddly celebratory, even before you deliver your news. Faeron parades past you with Viznak on his shoulders and you have to look to Golodir and Corunir to confirm you are not, in fact, imagining this. Culang is rather hung up on the goblin part of things until you catch him up.

It would seem that in the hours you were within Barad Cúron, Viznak had come to Barad Elenath in search of Rhadrog and Faeron, having seen merrevail assembling near the tower not long after seeing you enter. After being assured that half of his bodyguards had not, in fact, been kidnapped, and assuring the rest of the rangers that he was a friend, Viznak had gleefully led Rhadrog and Faeron and a handful of others in making Lhaereth’s day much worse. Now that you think of it, you have hardly seen any morroval or morvul since you left the tower. 

It takes several days for Corunir to stop seeing double, and even after he is prone to miserable headaches. There is nothing you can do about that, nor the medics in the towers or the camps outside the city. You must return the tarnished silver casket to Rivendell, but first you will stop in Minas Tirith and give to King Elessar a full account of the adventures. You ask Corunir to accompany you- both for his sake and for yours, because you are not so certain you can take another long journey alone. Golodir comes with you, too, though he says nothing of his reasons. You think it may be in no small part to keep an eye on Corunir. Faeron, Rhadrog, and Viznak see you off from Barad Angarth, and Faramir and an Éowyn revealed from Estolad Lan.

You see no further sign of Isildur’s shade, and have not since he vanished from the tower. After several days in Minas Tirith you turn north once more. You aim for the Gap of Rohan, intending to take the old Greenway and stop in Lhanuch. Little enough troubles the three of you (four, counting the dust), and when you dismount outside Lhanuch in the twilight the late spring air is warm and sweet.

Lhanuch is more crowded than you remember, busier, more lively, even at dusk. Someone calls your name and Nona hits you full-force in the chest, arms wide and laughter loud. You hold her back tightly until she pulls away to examine you.

“It has certainly taken you long enough,” she says. She has affection to spare for Corunir and Golodir, too, and she pulls you all along into Lhanuch. Horn is overjoyed to see you again and immediately launches into a story of their arrival in Lhanuch, months earlier. It is rather abandoned once you spot Corudan, patiently showing a young man how to properly hold his elf-craft bow. You yell at him quite a bit for vanishing as he did, but the effect is quite ruined by the hug from which you refuse to release him. You lose track of Corunir and Golodir around the same time. They are swept up in a mass of people you recognize vaguely from Tûr Morva and stay that way for most of your time in Lhanuch. For your own part, most of your time is spent with Horn and Corudan and Nona, trading stories and enjoying each other’s company.

It is with great regret that you insist you cannot stay. The casket still sits among your possessions, a constant reminder, and soon you set out again. You are not sure if anyone will come with you, but Corunir and Golodir leave with you at dawn.

You follow the road north and your surroundings become more and more familiar until the walls of Bree rise in the distance and woodsmoke fills the air. You turn towards the gate mostly out of habit, but Golodir and Corunir urge you onwards. You smile. It will be dark by the time you reach Saeradan’s cabin, but you doubt he will really mind.

It is and he doesn’t, welcoming the three of you and all but hauling you in the door. You have not yet set your bags down before the questions start, about your health and the journey and the state of the road. Corunir laughs and Golodir shakes his head with a fond smile. 

“Saeradan, who is- when did you get here?” Candaith stands in the cabin’s little kitchen holding a sack of potatoes. You freeze, but Corunir grins and drags you with him to the kitchen, where you are handed several potatoes and directed to a pot of water just coming to a boil.

“You do remember what happened last time you were put in charge of the stew,” Candaith demands, squinting at you when you start adding a number of spices in after the potatoes. Your smile is only a little forced.

“That was once, and it was hardly the _last_ time I cooked.”

He laughs, and you laugh, but still the memories are there, of the Road and the dreams and the visions in the Halls of Black Lore, and you add the pepper and it's too much and you seize him in a hug. You stand together in a long silence until you can push the past back where it belongs for the night.

There is more laughter, eventually, and talk, and a stew that comes out fine, really. You do not miss that nothing more weighty than Aragorn’s coronation comes up before you have eaten. After, there is more recounting of everyone’s various travels and you begin to realize just how long it has been since you have seen Saeradan or Candaith. They have had some news out of the south from Radanir, Braigiar, and Lothrandir, but there is so much to tell even so. Some things are less than pleasant to share, and silence begins to fill in the cracks in the conversation.

The hour is growing late, too, and before long you are all half-asleep. Candaith is leaned up against you where you and he and Corunir have crammed yourselves onto the couch that is just a touch too small for this. It takes a little bit of rearranging, but eventually you are all comfortable enough and you are drifting.

“Did Radanir give you the rock back?” Candaith asks suddenly.

“Huh?” you say, nearly asleep.

“The stone they found me holding. He was supposed to give it back.”

“Oh. Yeah.” And it has its own pocket in your rune-bag, though you do not know what you intend to do with it.

“Good.” A sleepy hand tries to pat your shoulder and instead hits you several times in the face. “Thank you for saving me there.”

You have had more than enough thoughts on this issue. “But I didn’t-”

“Yeah y’did. Now shhh, and go to sleep.” You think Candaith may be more than half-asleep himself. You still listen to him, though.

You dream of the distant past that night, and you wake part-way in the middle of the night to a hand in yours and a gentle touch against your hair. “It’s alright. You will see them again in the West, and you will have us for as long as mortal lives allow.” You sink back into sleep and when you wake, you almost believe you dreamed that as well, because you are not so certain it is true. (You wonder, too, who it was- it could have been any of them. All you knew was that you were not alone.)

You leave in the morning, despite all protests otherwise, because it was hard enough to leave Lhanuch and you know that if you stay any longer you may not be able to make yourself go. And because, though Saeradan’s cabin may be accustomed to hosting guests, your number is pushing the limits. You almost leave without saying goodbye, but you know Corunir would track you down just to yell at you if you did. He is put-out enough that you announce you will be leaving not ten minutes before you do, but neither he nor Golodir insist that you wait and so you set off on the last stretch of your journey to Rivendell alone but for dust. You think about dreams and near-dreams as you ride. It is true you may see your father and sibling and brother-in-law beyond the sea, but many choices are yet before you and you are not sure what you will decide.

The Last Homely House is nearly empty, the household gone south already for the wedding. You meet Gandalf at the mouth of the valley and at last Isildur knows peace. Gandalf proceeds to tell you all about the runes hidden within the illustrations in the Black Book before declaring the last of its secrets lost to time. You take the book to return it to Khîl yourself, as he had asked when you had first taken it out of Járnfast. 

You take the High Pass and cross the Beorning lands into the Greenwood, where you see much progress has been made towards its restoration. You bypass Loeglond altogether and make good time to the Iron Hills, where Khîl is surprised but pleased to see you. You take a moment to remember when last you spoke with him, and then you begin the story again. It takes hours to tell it all, of course, and even if there are places you would leave out details by choice or chance, Khîl is a storyteller and will have answers about your tale. Vóin's book lies open between you as you explain everything you and Gandalf puzzled out. You show Khîl the key, too, the one Mordirith died holding. You replay the scene in your mind while Khîl digs about in his family's old boxes, vaguely sorted now. According to Vóin, Eärnur had sworn to see Ugrûkhor dead before their quest into Durthang- and he had, in the end. He said Vóin had given him the key… perhaps he died Eärnur, at the very end. You are not sure now, and you did not care at the time. 

"Ah hah!" Khîl cries from another room. He brings a locked box and a mold to the table. "This mold must be for that key." The broken key does fit perfectly in the mold and Khîl drags you down to the forges excitedly. 

The contents of the locked box are rather underwhelming.

“A piece of glass?” Khîl picks it up and studies it, turning it over and over in his hands. You take it yourself, holding it up to the light and shaking it as if it might reveal something new.

“Wait! Do that again!”

You stop, still holding the shard. “Do what again?”

“Whatever you just did. I saw something.” Khîl is staring at the book, still open. You shake the glass again. “There!” Khîl grabs your arm and drags the shard over the pages. “Hidden letters!”

“Where?” Khîl tilts the shard and repositions you until you see them, pages and pages of hidden letters filling the blank spaces. Khîl tries to start reading them immediately, but the glass shard is small enough to make it difficult to read more than two or three words at a time and, though seeming less convoluted than the visible portions of the book, the language of it is still a thousand years old.

You have a journal in your bag, half-empty still and containing, among other things, your own notes on the book and a large number of loose blank pages. You have a system quickly enough- you and Khîl rig a makeshift stand for the glass shard and you transcribe the revealed runes while Khîl pieces together a more understandable translation. At one point he vanishes and returns some time later with a heavy book.

“Say what you will about Erebor,” he grumbles, “but their library is quite impressive. The one here is rather less so.” Even so, his own part goes more quickly afterwards.

It takes several days to get through everything, but eventually you have an effective copy of Vóin’s story and can finally read it in full.

When you and Khîl finish, you sit in silence for a long time. 

“He tried _so hard_ to save them.” And maybe he did save Eärnur in however small a way by sending Orthadel away, and Macilnis at least escaped the dungeons in Minas Morgul, but the others found no such blessing.

Eventually you scribe out another copy, this one much neater, thinking of one Wizard who would be most disappointed to miss out on yet another secret of the book, not to mention the assorted scholars from Erebor to Minas Tirith who would kill for a look at something like this. Your notes you leave with Khîl, who promises to send word if he finds anything new.

You ride out with Lakewind. Gandalf is most likely at the Beorninghús, straining Grimbeorn’s patience again. You will give him the book and then… and then you are out of tasks. Perhaps you will go back to Ithilien and help there. But the idea of making the journey south yet again is not at all appealing just now. Perhaps then you will go home, and it will not be so terrible, after all. Perhaps you will set the place back in order and invite your friends for dinner. 

That would be nice, you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nona really just rocked back into lhanuch with her rohirrim boyfriend, some dúnedain, her new elf best friend, and a whole squad of former falcon-clan dissenters and everyone else just had to deal with it
> 
> and did the black book epilogue really have to be Like That??

**Author's Note:**

> this one should be the last est thing but for real this time. mordirith is done and now she's just gonna take a nap for like. five years
> 
> edit: happy great wedding! I'm not gonna say I _should_ have waited to write this until afterwards, but there sure are some things that would've been different haha. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
